


Ataraxia

by Windian



Category: Tales of Graces
Genre: F/F, Tales of Big Bang 2016
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-21
Updated: 2016-08-21
Packaged: 2018-08-10 03:38:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 12,849
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7828981
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Windian/pseuds/Windian
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Cheria’s always performed to precision the roles she’s been given: dutiful daughter, caring friend, and soon, loving wife. Yet, with the wedding just around the corner, Cheria feels a restlessness she can't shake off. She takes a holiday to the beach resort with Sophie and Pascal. Pascal teaches her to swim. She drinks one too many banana daiquiris. She wonders why she can’t get Pascal off her mind.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. good girl

**Author's Note:**

> This is a fic I wrote for the 2nd 'Tales Of Big Bang!' I'm posting a little early since I'll be away during the posting date. 
> 
> Please enjoy!

  
_,To_

_The Lhant family_

_The Manorhouse_

_Lhant_

_Windor_

 

 

_Dear Asbel and Sophie,_

_I hope you're both well! So much has happened since I last wrote you both that I hardly know where to begin. After Chancellor Eigen pledged us his support we crossed the snowfields to Velanik, accompanied by a group of the Fendel militia. If only you could see the town now! Pascal's new heating system is working wonders for all of Fendel. I've been told it'll still be some years until the infrastructure is in place to supply hot water to Velanik, but the people are finally receiving the cryas rations they need. Asbel, Sophie, I wish you could be here! The children need no longer dig in the dirt for scraps of cryas. That awful, bleak feeling has given way to something much more hopeful._

_The nova monsters continue to be a menace. They've been encroaching further and further on the town over the past few weeks. But today the militia pushed them out onto the snowfield and dispatched a good number of them. A few men were hurt but Alayne and I were able to get to them in time to treat their injuries. I believe we're finally turning the tide in our favour against the creatures, and—_

* * *

 

Cigarette smoke hugs the ceiling of the Velanik Star in a tight embrace. Tonight, the dingy inn in Velanik is bright and loud and warm with bodies and laughter and music. The band on stage play a fast number on strings, and Cheria watches a man lift his daughter and swing her around and around. The girl throws her head back and laughs.

Her eyes glaze. A memory from earlier that day pulls her out of the haze of smoke, and she's on the snowfield once more. In the open, away from any shelter, the wind had cut like needles of ice. She'd knelt down in the snow as her healing light flooded through the injured soldier, the warmth at her fingertips a contrast to the icy cold leeching in through the material of her trousers, skin numb and tingling. The grizzled beard, flecked with either old age or snow, made his age hard to judge, but Cheria thought the man in his fifties. Clarity came back to his eyes as Sophie's light took hold, knitting together sinew and flesh and making him anew.

"You saved my life," he'd said, voice flat with shock, taking her hand and pushing himself up out of the snow. "You're no older than my daughter." There was a twinge of disbelief in there. Cheria had smiled patiently.

"I'm glad you're alright," she'd said.

He'd reached out to her, in what Cheria later realised was a clumsy attempt at some sort of affectionate hair rumple. "Good girl," he said.

The next tables over bursts into uproarious laughter. _Good girl_ , he'd said. Why did it bother her so much?

"Could I possibly get a drink, Miss Barnes? Or something for your friend?" The innkeeper approached the table, smiling broadly. "On the house, of course. Our ale is some of the finest in Fendel. Or we have some special vintages we've been waiting for an occasion to crack open."

Cheria raises a hand, smiling uneasily. "Oh, thank you, but I don't drink."

"Then please let me get you something else. You and your group have done so much for Velanik."

"It's really nothing…" said Cheria. "We were happy to help. I only wish we could do more."

"Well, I'll take one of those ales," says Alayne, stretching her elbows on the table. Originally a researcher from Sable Izolle, she'd joined their group after a nova monster broke into the tower and destroyed all her research. Cheria's relief group had come to help, and after that Alayne had decided to turn her research to medicine. She was different from Cheria in too many ways to count, but during the months travelling together they'd struck up a tentative friendship.

"Of course. Please, let me know if you change your mind and need anything, Miss Barnes" the innkeep says.

"Ah, thank you." The woman means well, but in secret Cheria is relieved when she turns away.

All this attention is just plain embarrassing.

The inn is so noisy Cheria isn't aware of the bird's decent until Alayne exclaims, "What is _that_?"

"What is what?"

"That," says Alayne, stabbing a finger at the mechanical bird perched on the handle of Alayne's tankard, bleeping for attention.

"Oh! It's the communicator," Cheria says, opening her hands to allow the bird to hop into her palms.

"It's the what now?"

"Um. It's like a device used to send messages," Cheria explains. "What have you got for me, little guy?"

The bird responds with a beep, its beak clicking open to print a long thin slip of paper, curling up like a lizard's tongue. Cheria tears it off and reads, smiling broadly. The messaged contains just one word:

 _Fold_.

"If I were your fiance, I'd send flowers, not a bird," Alayne says, poking the communicator suspiciously.

She flushes, folding the slip away to tuck it into her pocket. "It's from my friend Pascal."

"Huh. I just assumed from that big dorky smile your fiance had finally written to you." Alayne leans back, elbow slung over the back of her chair. Exchanges another look with the good-looking Fendel soldier she's been throwing glances to all night. "I guess he's a lord and all, but I don't know if I'd want to marry a guy who showed as little interest in me as your fellow does. It wouldn't kill him to write you."

"Asbel does write," Cheria protests, albeit weakly. The last time Asbel had written was months ago, and that was back when they were in Strahta. More often than not, it's Sophie who writes her, pressed sopherias following her all over the world ("so you don't forget about me," Sophie had said). Occasionally, Asbel tacks an addendum on the end. Or, more often than not: _Asbel says he hopes you're okay. Also can you write to him and tell him to stop stepping on my flowers?_

"It's just that… he's… not much of a letter writer," Cheria admits.

In all honesty, even _Pascal_ writes her more.

"Uh-huh," says Alayne, chin balanced on the back of her hands, giving Cheria _The Look_.

"Can we please drop this?"

"Fine." Alayne nudges her head to the slip Cheria's tucked away in her pocket. "So for what reason did your friend send this thing winging its way through the snowstorm for?"

"Oh, we're playing a game."

"A game?"

"Yes, long distance poker."

"Long distance… _poker?_ "

"I promised Sophie and Pascal I'd play poker with them again and it never happened. So Pascal figured a way around it," Cheria says, smiling to herself. She ignored the way Alayne shook her head. It wasn't entirely ideal, and true, their latest match had been going on for a month, but, all the same…

"So what you're saying is that your fiance's daughter writes you more than he does? To play… long distance poker. Huh."

So much for dropping it. Flushing fiercely, Cheria can't keep the annoyance out of her voice. "Oh, stop it. You've never even met him. Asbel is brave, and kind, and—"

"Shh!"

"Don't you _shh_ me, Alayne. He's—"

"Cheria, _shh_! He's coming over." Alayne pushes herself to sit up straighter, smoothing down her hair. "How'd I look?"

"He's? Who is—" Cheria quickly shut herself up as the solider Alayne had been swapping glances with approached the table, removing his hat.

"Good evening ladies. I was wondering if you'd be kind enough to share a dance or two with us?"

Alayne leans over the table, all flirt and liquid honey as she pretends to hesitate, and says, "Oh… I don't know. Are you any good?"

"Well, Miss, I couldn't rightly say. Why don't we dance and then you can tell me."

"I suppose, then…" a simper, and she takes the hand the solider is offering. Cheria is sure her eyes will roll straight out of her head if this keeps up.

"How about your friend?" the man asks.

"Ah, that's okay. I'm not much of a dancer," Cheria says, raising both hands to protest.

(She's especially not much of a dancer when it comes to completely random men in Fendel.)

"Oh come on, Cheria," Alayne says, arm in arm with her solider. "You're allowed to have fun, you know."

"I'm having fun sat right here," Cheria says, and Alayne exchanges a look with the man that clearly says, _she's hopeless._

"Suit yourself," says Alayne, as she joins the man and his friends on the dance floor.

It's fine. She wants to reply to Pascal's message anyway. Now she's out of the running, it's just Sophie she needs to take down.

And although she would never admit it out loud, there's a part of her that's glad Asbel hasn't written. Because she can't swallow down the worry that comes with every letter: that Asbel will get fed up with waiting and ask her to come home to Lhant.

The communicator bird hops up onto Cheria's wrist, and she heads up through the crowd to her room for the night.

"Goodnight, Miss Barnes," calls the innkeep from behind the bar. "Do you have everything you need?"

"I'm perfect, thank you. Goodnight," says Cheria.

She's not ready, yet, for all of this to end.

* * *

 

_Dear Asbel and Sophie,_

_How are you both? You must tell me about the all flowers growing in the garden, Sophie. I imagine the night lilies must be coming in now that the season is changing._

_This is our last day in Fendel. Chancellor Eigen threw a gala last night and invited our relief group to celebrate the monster eradication and the completion of the Pascal System in Zavhert. Probably the most dull thing I've been to in my life, though thankfully Captain Malik was there (though I do wish he wouldn't drink so much). Even Pascal managed to peel herself away from the valkines to come, even if it was in her grubby overalls. And that she ate so many banana pies she was sick again and I had to help her back to the inn. She's unbelievable. Did I mention the gala was being held in her honour?_

_We're heading to Strahta next. The President has requested our aid for the situation in the Sandshroud ruins. I'd hoped we might be able to stop in Lhant and see you both, but we're catching a direct ship._

_Pascal found some strange seeds at the Amarcian Enclave I thought you might like to plant, Sophie. Fourier assures me they're flower seeds and not something weird (ever since she told me about that flesh eating plant in Pascal's room, I worry)._

_I hope you're both well._

_With all my love,_

_Cheria._

* * *

 

It takes two years until the rest of the monsters are eradicated. Those years are some of the most stressful, tiring, and amazing of Cheria's life.

They can't save everybody. It's an inevitability, yet it doesn't make the pill any less bitter to swallow. It doesn't stop her from wanting to write to Asbel and tell him that she wants to come home, to tell him she can't take it any more. In those moments of weakness she misses him and Sophie fiercely. Wishes Asbel was there to put his arms around her, tell her everything will be okay. That he'll protect her.

And yet, the moments they do make it in time are enough for Cheria to put down her quill, to struggle on. Because what is her fear next to a mother's relief that the child she thought slated for death will now live to grow up? What is her weakness next to a wife's grateful tears that her husband will come home to her?

She sees so much more of the world than on their fraught journey after Richard and Lambda. Cheria has dinner at the presidential palace in Yu Liberte, looking at her own face reflected back in the magical fountains, hair put up high, face tan from their travels in the desert. Alayne's soldier boyfriend asks him to marry him. A few months later, she comes back. Says with a shrug: "Just didn't really work out."

There's an earthquake near Oul Ray, and Cheria sees firsthand the power of the earth, majestic and terrible in its destruction.

In the newly built village of Orlen, there's a resurgence of the monsters, and two men are killed. King Richard comes to visit, to offer his aid and condolences, his strong and warm presence bringing heart back the villagers. Yet, when the two of them eat together alone at the inn, Cheria has never seen such terrible grief in Richard's eyes.

He confesses to her, his voice low and trembling: "If dying to atone for my crimes would erase them, I'd willingly die. Yet I fear that would do nothing. Instead, I must do all I can."

Cheria can't stand to see Richard in such pain. She puts a hand on the King's back, and when she feels him trembling under her touch, changes her mind and pulls Richard in for a hug. Feeling him hesitating, she tells him, "It's all right, Richard."

Richard clings to her. For a minute, Cheria holds him, brushing her hand across his back until the trembling begins to slow and cease. He pulls himself away, eyes downcast, lips tight. "I'm sorry," he says, unable to meet her gaze in his shame.

"It's okay," she tells him again, laying a hand on top of his.

It redoubles her determination. She can't go home, not until all these terrible beasts are destroyed. Not until Richard doesn't have to suffer any longer.

* * *

 

Alayne, John and Lilly broach the idea to her.

"Healers without borders," says John, who's been with them for six months now, framing the idea with his hands. The campfire flickers, Lilly stirring tonight's dinner.

The monsters will soon be finished, but their group doesn't have to be. The natural crisis' in the world won't stop just because the nova monsters are gone.

Lilly wants to take it a step further.

"In a few years, we could even open clinics. For people who can't afford to see a doctor. I'm sure President Paradine will support us."

"And you're tight with King Richard, Cheria," says Alayne. "He'd be willing to grant us another donation, right?"

"Perhaps," says Cheria. It was Richard who'd helped fund the group in the first place. He'd given double the amount she'd asked for.  


Healers without border. It sounds incredible. And they have the man power, now, to do it. More people join their group every day.

And yet, it's been more than two years since Cheria agreed to live with Asbel, and…

"C'mon Cheria, what do you say?" asks Alayne. All around the fire, everyone waits for her response. "I figured you'd be more up for this anyone."

Cheria promises she'll think about it.

* * *

 

A fortnight after their conversation, the letter finally arrives.

It chases them all the way from Fendel to Strahta, the parchment stained and weather beaten.

She and Alayne are sat in a cafe in Yu Liberte, drinking ice tea under the shade of a parasol. Cheria's fingers tremble as she slides a nail under the envelope and slips it open.

Asbel writes:

_Mum thinks june would be a good date for the wedding. What do you think? Also Sophie's grown white roses in the garden._

_Yours, Asbel._

Well, that's that, Cheria thinks.

Alayne reads the letter over her shoulder, her voice desert-dry. "Wow, what a romantic."

Cheria's ice tea runs empty, straw rasping against the bottom of the glass. Laughter cuts across the boulevard. She wipes the back of her hand against her brow.

The day is far too hot.


	2. you have recieved one new bird

The white silk ran like water over Cheria's hand.

"It's so pretty." The words were an exhale of awe. "Mama, you must have looked like a princess."

Sat on the crocheted cover of her mother's bed, Cheria handled the wedding dress she'd been allowed to hold like it was precious crystal.

"It belonged to my mother. She wore it the day she married your grandpa. And one day, you'll wear it to your own wedding too, Cheria." Lent by her mother's side, she drew her fingers through Cheria's hair in long soothing strokes.

"I will?" she asked.

"Of course."

Her mother continued to part her hair, and Cheria thumbed the lace collar of her mother's dress, imagining herself grown up, walking down the aisle. Looking ook like a princess out of fairy tales.

Cheria couldn't wait.

* * *

 

The mirror in the Lhant guest room has become a magic mirror.

Cheria stands on the dresser's stool as the tailor shifts like a shadow in the corner of her eye, fussing with the hem of the long trailing dress. Her gaze is spell-locked to the reflection in the looking glass. White silk like gossamer; with the tailors' adjustments, it clings to the woman in the glass like a second skin. The trail is an oyster's shell fanning out behind her, the slight, white jacked studded with pearls, blinking at her when she shifts.

When Cheria moves her mother, reflected back in the glass, moves with her. The only odd piece to this puzzle: Cheria's wide, long lashed eyes, shining with a dull dismay.

If she's honest, she's almost grateful when Sophie sticks her with the pin.

"Sophie, I know you wanted to help… but maybe leave that to Ms. Francis, okay?" she asks, stifling the wince with a tight smile.

Knelt by the dresser's stool, Sophie looks up at her with apologetic, doleful eyes. "Sorry, Cheria. I just wanted to help."

"I know you do." Affectionately, Cheria tucks a strand of loose hair back behind Sophie's ear. "But you're already been super helpful, growing all those wonderful flowers for the wedding. And I can't wait to see you in your outfit. You're going to make a beautiful bridesmaid."

As though she's inflating herself, Sophie puffs herself up. "I won't let you down."

She's been taking the title of _Bridesmaid_ with an almost military dedication. She thought no-one could top Lady Kerri's enthusiasm for the wedding but just yesterday caught Sophie digging her heels in, telling her future mother-in-law that, "No, Grandma. We can't have _cream_ coloured roses. In flower language, they say the words for appreciation. Asbel doesn't just appreciate Cheria. He loves her. So we need _red_ roses."

The memory is enough to make Cheria smile, except that her gaze is tugged once more to the woman in the mirror.

For weeks now, Cheria's felt a growing restlessness. A kind of itch underneath her skin, out of reach to scratch. As she looks into the mirror the feeling rises up in her throat, bringing with it the violent— irrational— desire to pull the dress from her. When the dress-maker's pins prickle her, to pull apart the beautiful lacework, tear it into pieces; ruin everything.

The eyes in the looking glass that stare back at her are trapped. Angry.

"Cheria?" Sophie asks. "Can I ask you something?

Cheria carefully, forcefully, swallows down the desire. "Of course, Sophie. What is it?" Her smile is painfully tight.

"Are you happy? Now that you're marrying Asbel?"

Sophie's piercing gaze cuts right through her. On the dress-maker's stool, she feels strangely exposed.

The words, "Of course," lodge in her throat. This is, after all, what she's always wanted, since she was young enough to know how to want. Yet, like toffee in her teeth, the words stick to Cheria's tongue.

They're interrupted by a knock at the door. Dutiful bridesmaid, Sophie calls suspiciously, "Is it Asbel? Because if it's Asbel, you're not allowed in."

"No, Miss Sophie. It's Frederic."

Sophie hesitates. "Is Frederic okay?"

"Come in, Grandpa," Cheria calls, and Frederic steps inside, freezing when his eyes alight upon her.

"Why, you look so much like your mother, Cheria," Frederic says, voice deep with emotion. "If only she could see you now. She'd be so proud."

Again, rising like the tide, that same urge to tear, to pull apart, to—

Cheria's voice catches, "Was there something you needed, Grandpa?"

"Ah, yes. You received a bird." Frederic extends the silver tray normally reserved for letters. Perched upon it, and pecking at Frederic's cuff-link is the communicator bird.

"Oh! Stanley's home," Sophie exclaims.

"Stanley?" Cheria asks.

"I thought it was sad that he didn't have a name," says Sophie.

Frederic behaves as though this is absolutely normal. After so many years in service, his professionalism is a force to be reckoned with.

Cheria takes the bird.

"It's from Pascal. She says she's here." Her eyebrows raise to meet her hair. "At Lhant hill."

* * *

 

From any other person, this surprise visit out of the blue might raise some questions. But this is Pascal, who is here, there, everywhere, without rhyme or reason. Supposedly, she has a contract working with the Fendel government, but then Pascal's not exactly the sort to care for _contracts_ or _working hours_ or _scheduled holiday leave._

Cheria and Sophie find her lying on her back in the meadow, fiddling with one of her mechanical gizmos. Her shotstaff has been rammed into the ground as a makeshift aerial and taped to some… _thing_ with flashing lights that emits a low whirring sound. She's taken off her shoes, waving one leg to the beat of some tune in her head, and Cheria feels of pang of something that's not quite envy.

"Hello, Pascal," says Sophie, and Pascal's eyes pop up from her machine, mouth hooking into a grin, as though she's surprised and delighted to see them.

"Heya Sophie! And Cheria! Whattya both doing here?"

"Um. You invited us," Cheria says. Never mind the fact that she literally sent a bird winging their way less than an hour ago.

"Oh yeah! Guess I just got so caught up in my work I forgot."

"What are you doing, Pascal?" Sophie asks.

"I'm using this thingy here to measure the eleth on the hill."

"Why?" asks Sophie.

"Lhant hill is one of the few places in the world where all three types of eleth gather. So I figured I'd come and take a look see and try to figure out why, like." The gizmo on her shotstaff starts to whirr more frantically, lights blinking on and off. "Ooh, look, I'm getting a reading!"

"Um, weren't you supposed to be working on the hot water system in Fendel, Pascal?" Cheria asks.

"Yeah, but I was feeling kind of cramped and stuff, so I figured I'd take a walk. Y'know, stretch my legs and all."

" _All the way to Lhant?"_

" _Omigosh,_ the reading is registering a 317.2!" Pascal ignores her completely in favour of her dials, fiddling frantically.

Sophie leans forward in interest. "What does that mean?"

"Hmm. Yeah, I'm not sure yet."

Cheria places a hand squarely over her face.

"Also, my stomach is kind of registering a code red hunger," Pascal says. Cheria opens her eyes to see her grinning hopefully at her. "Can I stay for dinner?"

"Of course!" Sophie claps her hands together, before turning to Cheria. "She can stay, right?"

"Of course you can. You must be starving." Cheria looks over Pascal in concern. All the time she's known her, she's always been so thin. "You… didn't really walk here from Zavhert, did you?"

"Sure did! Really cleared out the cobwebs."

"Wow, Pascal. You're amazing."

"Amazing… is definitely one word," Cheria says with a sigh. Pascal, as usual, blanks this, gazing up at her with big pleading eyes.

"Will you… make me a banana pie Cheria? Your banana pies are just the best."

"I don't know that we've got any bananas at home right now," Cheria frets. "You were the only one that used to eat them, Pascal."

"Pur—lease, Cheria?" She pulls out the big guns: the puppy dog eyes. "This hunger is a hunger only the banana-ryness of your banana pies can fill-!"

"Please, Cheria," Sophie says. "It's a _code red_ hunger."

Great, thinks Cheria. She's got Sophie going now, too.

"Ohhhhh, such hunger," Pascal bemoans, covering her face with her hands, rolling over to press her face into the grass. "I don't know how much longer I'll last."

Sophie kneels down by her side. "Please, just hold on, Pascal. We'll make you banana pie. Cheria would never let you starve to death."

"Ohhhh-ohhhhhh— I think I can see the light," Pascal moans. Though Cheria catches her taking a quick sneaky peak out of her death throes, just to make sure her theatrics are working.

" _Fine_ ," Cheria exhales. "But if the store doesn't have them in, there's nothing I can do."

"Can we buy crabs too, while we're there?" Sophie asks her.

"Sophie, I just made you crablettes last night. And I'm not going to have time if I'm making banana pie. I promised Asbel we'd have curry."

But, perhaps Sophie was less taken in by Pascal's act as she'd thought, because now she falls onto the grass. "Ohhhh, Cheria— the light—!"

Cheria crosses her arms. "I hope you're happy now," she tells Pascal, who grins the most unrepentant smile she's ever seen.

"Please, Cheria! This hunger is a hunger only the crabby taste of your crablettes can fill-!"

* * *

 

The unsurprising result of this: in the kitchen, the pot of curry sits on the hob, Sophie's crablettes on a simmer while Cheria hoiks up her sleeves, up to her arms in flour as she rolls out the pie crust.

She looks over her shoulder to see Sophie sat cross-legged on the kitchen floor, watching the frying pan with an inhuman focus, unblinking.

"Sophie, I don't have three arms. Watch the crablettes and keep turning them over or they're going to burn. And—" Cheria turns in the other direction, where Pascal is sticking to her shadow, so close she can't move without bumping into her. "—Would you please let me _breathe_ , Pascal?"

Pascal's eyes are bright and shining, hands balls up in front of her chest. "But I need to learn your secret technique, Cheria! Like what is you do that makes your pies just the _best_?"

Despite herself, Cheria can't help but flush with pride at the compliment. "There's really no special technique. It's just practice."

"C'm-on, Cheria, don't hold out on me. I promise I won't tell a soul."

Sophie picks up the crablette with the spatula and drops it back in the pan like lead. "The Captain told me the special ingredient a real woman uses in the kitchen is love."

"But I'm a real woman, and I've already got a ton of love!" Pascal protests. "Especially for you, Sophie."

Sophie raises her spatula in warning, and Cheria sighs at their antics. "Come here, Pascal. You can roll it. It's been sat long enough now."

"Aye aye!" Cheria shifts out of the way to give Pascal space at the counter, and Pascal asks, "Hey, have you got something long and thin, like, to roll it with?"

Cheria's eyebrows rise so high they end up somewhere in the vicinity of her hair. "As in, a rolling pin?"

Pascal snaps her fingers. "You read my mind!"

Cheria presses the rolling pin into her hand. "What on earth do you usually use?"

"Usually my staff. I pretty much use my shotstaff for everything."

"Oh." Sophie lets the crablette flop back into the pan like a dead fish. "So that's why your cryas artes always make me hungry."

"Pretty good, huh? You could say I'm a master of the _culinary artes._ "

"Please let's just make this pie," Cheria says, through her teeth.

However, Pascal rolls the pie dough with the gentle touch of a battering ram. "Wow, this is so much easier using my staff!"

Cheria pinches the cartilage of her nose.

"Don't you sometimes accidentally cast artes when you're using your staff for cooking, Pascal?" Sophie asks.

"Yeah, sometimes. That's why I'm not allowed to cook at the enclave anymore."

It hardly bears asking, but Cheria can't help the question parting her lips: "Why?"

"Because the Overseer just like totally overreacted. I only set my house on fire like, twice?" As she speaks Pascal continues to pulverise the pie dough, now so thin it's full of holes.

Cheria can't help but wonder how on earth this is the same woman who'd solved the energy crisis in Fendel.

"Pascal," she sighs, "come here. Let me help you. Step one: roll the dough. Don't obliterate it."

She gathers the dough back into a ball and moves in behind Pascal, places her hand on top of hers, making to guide them.

Except that when their hands touch a bizzare thrill races from the contact through their nerve endings, more fierce than a shock of static.

"Uh, Cheria? I'm ready for step two," says Pascal, when Cheria stands stock still, unmoving.

Cheria's voice cracks like flaky pastry: "Ri—right. Now you just need to— to—"

What's wrong with her?

Cheria pauses. Takes a deep breath to steady herself and her jangling nerves.

This proves to be a mistake.

"—To take a bath—!" Cheria exclaims, unable to stop the recoil as she stumbles away, the frightful smell coming off the woman enough to make her gag.

"Cheria, watch out-" Sophie calls, before it's too late, and the tray on the island counter goes flying.

When Asbel walks in, some minutes later, he finds the counter— and the three young women- covered head to toe in flour.

"Whoa! What happened here?"

Sophie lets the crablette flop back into the pan, limply. Tells her father with a smile, "Cheria taught Pascal how to cook like a real woman."

* * *

 

"Hey," Asbel says later, as they sit around the dinner table, a weak smile tugging at his lips, "at least the curry was saved."

He _would_ care about that, Cheria thinks, snapping a papadum in two with an violent crunch.

Sophie pokes at her plate uneasily with her spoon. "There are weird clumps in my food—" she starts, before Asbel speaks over her.

"Wow, this sure tastes good!"

Cheria sets her cutlery down with a clatter that makes everyone around the the table jump. "It's terrible," she says. "You all don't have to pretend. It's awful."

"I dunno. I kinda think these lumps kinda add to the texture," Pascal says, popping one into her mouth. "Tastes kinda— ouch—" she goes quiet, as though someone under the table has kicked her.

"It's terrible," Cheria repeats, "everything is terrible." The irritability that's been bubbling under the surface for the last few weeks has reached boiling point. "The wedding is in two months and my dress isn't ready. Asbel still hasn't picked his best man. The decorations still aren't done, and—" _and none of this feels right at all,_ she thinks.

She buries her face in her hands, and feels Asbel hesitantly, awkwardly, place a hand on her back. "Uh. I know it's stressful, but… it'll be alright. We've still got time," he says. "And, uh, I'll ask Richard about that best man thing soon. It'll be okay."

No it won't, she wants to tell him. Because something about all of this feels _wrong_.

How many years had she dreamt of this? She's living with Asbel. She's marrying Asbel. So many nights she'd spent writing in long looping calligraphy his name and hers, conjoined. Imagined his hands around hers, her lips on his.

Now that dream is a reality. She has Asbel's hand hovering awkwardly on her back, even more his shy half-hearted kisses, and in two months time, their names will be joined for real.

She should be happy. And yet here she is, in tears over a ruined _curry_ of all things.

"I… I'm sorry," she says, wiping her eyes. "You're right, Asbel. I think it's… it's just stress."

He smiles, too tightly.

"Sounds like you need a holiday," Pascal announces.

Cheria lifts her head from her hands. "A holiday?"

"Yeah! I mean, you travelled all around the whole world! It's no wonder you're feeling all cramped and stuff in this tiny town. You need to like, stretch your legs and stuff."

 _Cramped_. That was the exact word for what she was feeling. _But I never expected Pascal of all people to understand._

"I… I don't know," Cheria says. "There's so much to do for the wedding. I'm not used to leaving things to other people…"

"Which is exactly why you need to let loose! It's totally not healthy to be so stressed out all of the time. Right, Sophie? Don't you think Cheria needs a break?"

Sophie nods. "You cried because your hairclip broke last week, Cheria. And then you got angry at Asbel because he didn't ask about it."

Cheria winces. "Sorry, Asbel."

He rubs at the back of his neck. "S'okay… I know it's the stress talking, not you."

She looks up at him. "What do you think… about this holiday idea?"

"I think Pascal's got a good point. Honestly, when I returned to Lhant to become lord after everything that happened, I felt restless as well. Plus, you deserve a holiday, Cheria. You went all around the world helping people… you deserve some time for yourself, too. Why don't you go to the beach resort with Sophie?"

Maybe it really is just stress, she thinks.

"Yes. Yes, you're absolutely right, Asbel. Would you come with us too, Pascal?" Cheria asks. "It might be fun. A girls' holiday! We can stop in Yu Liberte to go shopping." When Pascal pulls a face, she amends, "—or, we can visit the ruins at Sable Izolle. Though I guess you have to get back to your work in Fendel…?"

Pascal waves this away. "Ehh. I can make time."

The sun, the sand, the sea… maybe it's just what the doctor ordered.

And when Cheria comes home, maybe things will start feeling like they're supposed to.


	3. passing ships

 The hot sand feels glorious under Cheria's skin. She lays back, the sun a hot, bright film against her eyelids, wriggling her toes in the sand and delighting in the texture: the surprise of the cool sand buried beneath the hot. She's a slab of butter melting in the pan, all her worries slipping away and this— _this_ , is exactly what she's needed.

And then Pascal yells, "Cannonball!"

It's the only warning she gets before the shock of cold water hits her, the protest half way out of her mouth before Sophie bellows, "Cannonball!"

The resulting splash-back from Sophie's triple-somersault hits Cheria with physical force, and she's spluttering out a chlorine-tasting mouthful, the tide-mark reaching half way up the beach.

The cute new sundress she bought in Yu Liberte is absolutely _soaked_.

" _Pascal! Sophie_!"

Pascal hoists herself up on the side of the pool, still wearing that ridiculous bathing suit she picked out in the city: a _sharkini- a_ grey one-piece, with a split open on her side, past her belly button, ringed with pointy teeth.

"Whoah! Did you see that, Cheria? Ain't Sophie amazing?"

Cheria's hair is plastered to her scalp, dripping from head to toe. "You two realise this pool has a diving board, right?"

"Yeah, but Sophie wanted to show you."

The sand that had felt so good now clings uncomfortably to her wet skin, all grainy and itchy and _ew_. Her voice is as dry and clipped as the Strahtan desert: "I saw."

Sophie tucks her elbows over the side of the pool, smiling from ear to ear. "Cheria, did you like my dive?"

She looks so cute in her two piece, hair tied up in two buns, that's it's hard to stay mad. "It was… um, very nice."

Cheria had been somewhat alarmed when Sophie had tried to pick out the sexiest swimsuit in the shop in Yu Liberte, consisting on several bits of elastic and sequins. The following exchange occurred: "Sophie, that's not really… appropriate.", "Why?", "B-because it's just not.", "But the Captain said if a woman wants to catch a big fish, she has to capitalise on her assets.", "W-well, we're not going fishing, so please, let's just put that away!"

Perhaps, this was all just a part of motherhood.

Before they'd caught the boat for Strahta, Cheria had written out an entire itinerary, planned to the letter: a brief stop to see the sights in Sable Izolle, shopping in Yu Liberte, topped off with a splash in the relaxing Strahtan resort.

But, after all that trouble she'd gone to in Sable Izolle to get clearance to visit some of the ancient Amarcian ruins, because she thought it would enjoyable for Pascal— what does she do? She decides this "ancient springy thingy" would work better if she gave it a "bit of the ol' smackeroo" with her hammer.

As it turned out, the ancient springy thingy didn't appreciate any bit of the ol' smackeroo, because it broke, and then they all got kicked out of Sable Izolle.

This wasn't even going to into the trouble in Yu Liberte during the visit to "the World's Biggest Crablette." Though, to be fair, Cheria probably should have seen that one coming.

She just wanted to enjoy an ordinary, relaxing, _normal_ holiday.

The problem being: she'd chosen to go away on vacation with Sophie and _Pascal_ of all people.

"Cheria, will you watch me?" Sophie asks, eyes shining bright. "I can do a double backflip, too."

"I don't think so. No more gymnastics from you, young lady." The shadow of the beefy looking pool attendant fell over Sophie and Pascal. He, too, was dripping from head to toe. "You pull that stunt again and we'll lose half of the pool water."

"Aww! But c'mon, you gotta admit that was the single most coolest thing you've seen in your life, right?" Pascal entreats.

"…Well, yeah, it was super cool," the attendant admits, before raising an authoritative finger. "But all the same, don't do it again. Capiche?"

"Capische," says Sophie.

As soon as the pool attendant turns his back, Cheria buries her face in her hands. "The two of you are going to get us kicked out at this rate. Pascal, could you not do something crazy just for two seconds?"

"Hey! I wasn't the one with the fancy somersault."

"But you _encouraged_ Sophie."

"True," says Sophie. "You did."

Cheria puts her hands on her hips. "You're not out getting out of this either, Sophie. Can't the two of you just behave normally… for _once_?"

"Triple somersaults aren't… normal?" Sophie asks.

"I'd argue that's a matter of persp—"

Cheria cuts Pascal off. "Of course they're not!" she exclaims, before steadying herself with a deep breath. "Just. Go for a swim or something, the two of you," she exhales in exasperation, wringing the pool water out of her hair.

Her annoyance and frustration roll of Sophie like water off a duck's back. "Will you come swimming with us, Cheria?" she asks.

"That's… um…"

"Yeah, c'mon Cheria!" says Pascal. "You can show off that snazzy new swimsuit. Y'know, the one you spent hours and hours and—"

"And hours and hours—" Sophie adds.

"—and hours deciding on."

Cheria folds her arms. "It wasn't _that_ long. And I'm fine right here. I brought a book."

Or: she had brought a book. Which now resembles a soggy paperweight.

She takes a deep, measured breath.

"Look, I can't swim," Cheria confesses, a flush creeping up her neck. "I never learnt how."

As a child, she, Asbel and Hubert and their other friends from Lhant had spent countless days playing at the harbour. She longed bitterly to swim with other children, but the cold water and too much exercise aggravated her condition. Most afternoons, she'd sit with Hubert on the quayside, dipping her toes in the cold water. Hot stone under her fingers, they'd watch the boats come in and out. Hubert kept a schedule: which boats were due, and when. Those ships with their caches of exotic treasures from other lands soon became cogs in clockwork. Some days she'd bring her sketchbook and draw; something to keep her hands busy with, to keep her eyes from straying enviously to the children playing in the water.

In truth, she still sometimes has that same lingering feeling as those long afternoons when she was ten: watching the boats drifting from port to port, alone on the wide glittering ocean.

Her fingers, without anything to occupy them, tangle in front of her.

"I've got it!" Pascal smacks one fist into her open palm, smile so bright her teeth dazzle. "You can't swim. And I'm like, a totally awesome swimmer. How about I teach you?"

She'd swam the entire length of Lake Grale. Had roamed the entire world at her pleasure, no destination, no ports of call.

Cheria turns her head. "No thank you," she says, with a huff.

* * *

 

"How's this, Ma'am? Too hard or too soft for you?" the masseuse asks, voice as warm as the oil she's slathering on Cheria's back.

She's face forward on the salon table, staring at the chequered tiled floor. Cheria closes her eyes and exhales. "No, that's just right. Thank you," she says with a sigh.

The woman's hands are heaven on her back, unchaining the boulder of tension she's been lugging around on her shoulders and soothing away the stress. And she smells like cocoa butter, too.

She's so relaxed her head feels like lead, but Cheria lifts it to see how Sophie's doing on the adjacent table and finds her with a perplexed look on her face.

"Are you doing okay, Sophie?"

"I can hardly feel anything," Sophie says. The other masseuse looks equally confused, considering how hard he's already pressing.

"I should press harder, Miss?" he asks.

"Yes."

"Is this better?"

"Harder."

Raising her eyebrows, Cheria lets gravity pull her head back down as the masseuse pummels Sophie's back.

"Better?"

"A little."

Cheria winces a little as the masseuse moves up to her shoulders. "You're carrying a lot of stress in your muscles, Ma'am."

"That's what comes from organising a wedding," she says, with a put-upon sigh.

"Oh, congratulations! When is the date?"

"In June."

"I'm going to be the bridesmaid." Sophie's voice rises up with a note of pride, in between the sound so her being tenderised like a pound of mincemeat.

"Ah, how lovely. And your other friend? The one with, um, the interesting swimsuit, is she a bridesmaid too?"

Cheria can't repress the rather unladylike snort that escapes her at that mental image: Pascal in pastel, sweet and demure, holding her trail with flowers in her hair.

"Oh no, not her."

She needs to work on the unladylike snort. Especially since, in a few months, she will, literally, be a lady.

"It's just going to be my daughter and I."

There's a pointed pause, no doubt as the masseuse tries to wrap her had around a mother and daughter who look both in their early twenties, and _oh, no, she must think I'm secretly really old._

"Well, she will be my daughter, officially, once I marry her father," Cheria amends quickly.

"Oh. How nice," says the masseuse, and Cheria flushes, the realisation hitting that _she must think I'm some terrible gold-digger, preying upon some old grey-haired old widower, and—_

"Please try to relax, Ma'am. You're very stiff—"

"We were childhood friends!" Cheria blurts. "Asbel and I are the same age. We grew up together! Isn't that right, Sophie? Um, Sophie?"

She look up over at Sophie for help, where the burly masseuse is loading up her back with a pile of massage stones. "Sophie?" she exclaims.

"Oh, yes. When Asbel was eleven we all made a friendship pact on Lhant hill. It was great," Sophie says.

"Um," says the masseuse. "So, what's your fiance like?"

"Oh!" At last, a topic that isn't crucifyingly embarrassing. "Asbel's wonderful. He's always looked out for me, ever since we were kids." Well, leaving aside the time he abandoned in her in that tree to play knights 'n bad guys with Timothy. Or all the other times he ditched her to play on Lhant hill. Or when he promised he'd stay in Lhant and abandoned her for seven years. "He's a really good guy. And really romantic." The masseuse waits for her to expand on this, bracelets jangling as she works the stubborn tension out of her back. But instead Cheria just mutters, "really, um, romantic."

"How did he propose? I bet he must have done something really special for it."

"Oh, yes! It was in Barona, and—" and he was about to leave, until Sophie stopped him. "—near the valkines, Gloandi—"

"Oh, how lovely! My cousin's boyfriend proposed by the valkines, too."

"Right! He can come across unthoughtful sometimes, but the truth is Asbel's really considerate. He asked me to come live with him and Sophie and become a a family."

She frowns at the tiled floor. Out loud, that isn't quite as romantic as she remembered.

"Did he kneel down in front of the valkines with the ring, too?"

Wait. _Did Asbel even ask me to marry him?_

"Asbel and I went shopping for you ring a few months ago, Cheria!" Sophie titters. "Asbel let me help pick!"

"He told me he had it picked out over a year ago," Cheria says with a frown.

"Oh. He also said it was a secret and not to tell you. Sorry Cheria."

Cheria's mouth hangs open.

"Oh, I'm sorry honey," the masseuse says, sighing sympathetically. "Men. What are they like?"

Cheria latches onto this like a drowning sailor to a buoy. "Yeah! Honestly, men! Did you know when were were courting he only wrote me four letters in a whole year?"

"I hear you. My hubby's just the same. Doesn't even know how to fold a pillow-case and he has the indecency to complain when the house is untidy. But what can you do? Can't live with them. Can't live without them."

"I know, right?" says Cheria.

"So, men are… bad…?" asks Sophie.

"Um… that's not exactly what I…"

"You're all done, honey," says the masseuse, and Cheria pushes herself up to find Sophie buried under a mountain of the smooth massage stones, smiling in contentment.

"Um, Sophie…?"

"Yes, Cheria?"

"Nevermind," she sighs.

* * *

 

On the way from the spa to the pool Cheria is accosted not just by one but two young men. The first is easy enough to dissuade, but the second proves persistent, enough to merit a flash of the engagement ring, "and that is why I cannot "ditch my friends" to come "hang" with you, thank you very much."

The man goes from flirty to sour grapes in the space of about thirty seconds.

"Well, I wasn't that keen on you, anyway," he tells her, eyes rambling over her, lips curved in a sneer.

As he turns his back on her, Cheria calls after him, "Then why did you ask, huh?"

She kicks up a bit of sand, for good measure, and stomps over to the poolside.

Pascal finds her there, looking at her engagement ring and mumbling about men and pests and _Asbel_.

Draping her elbows over the side of the pool, Pascal asks her, "How was the spa? Relaxing?"

"Something like that," Cheria mutters.

"Cool."

Cheria drags her eyes away from the ring to Pascal, smiling widely, her hair plastered to the sides of her head. "You've been swimming laps this whole time?"

"Yup!"

"Why?" asks Cheria.

"It just feels really good to completely wear yourself out. Then you fall into bed at night and sleep like a log. You get me?"

Cheria thinks back on her time with her relief group. She'd been so tired most days that come evening, she'd simply fallen into bed. But Pascal was right: there was something satisfying about it.

She feels a pang of longing, thinking on it. What is Alayne doing right now? And John, and Lilly, and everyone else? Are they still trying to bring their dream to fruition?

"Yeah," she says softly. "I get you."

The paved stone poolside is hot under Cheria's hands, her feet cool on the water, and something about it reminds her, pulls her back…

"About your offer earlier, about the swimming lessons…" she begins, hesitating. Her knuckles tighten and her engagement ring catches the light. She swallows down her reticence. "I changed my mind."

Pascal's mouth splits into a wide toothy grin.

"Oh. Um, Pascal, you've got something caught in your teeth. It's like, broccoli or something."

"Oh, probably," is Pascal's reply. She makes no move to remove it.

A sigh and, "Come here." She motions Pascal closer to her, and leaning down from the poolside she uses her thumbnail to dislodge the thing between Pascal's teeth. "Ew. Actually, I think it was spinach."

"Yeah, I don't remember eating either of those things, so I dunno."

Cheria's all ready to shake her head, tell Pascal she's hopeless, when Pascal's eyes flick up to hers, brown eyes transmuted into liquid amber in the light.

"Oh," says Cheria. "You're pretty."

It's not like she's never noticed before, in an off-hand aesthetic sense, but this time the realisation hits her off-kilter with both its potency and urgency. It's a different kind of pretty, and the fact that Pascal has swum up between her thighs has taken on different implications that it did thirty seconds ago. Pascal's so close she can feel the curl of her breath and smell the mango cocktail she'd been handed on their way into the resort.

"Hey, Cheria, are you okay? You kinda look out of it," Pascal says.

"Yes," Cheria says, the word so high-pitched it leaves her in a _squeak_ as Pascal, casually, rests an elbow on her thigh.

"Well, you better wake up, cuz it's time for your first swimming lesson!"

She takes Cheria's hand, and the thrill that runs down her body is so charged that Pascal's intention passes completely over her head. Until the moment Pascal _tugs_ , and Cheria falls face-first in the water.

She can't feel the bottom, and Cheria panics. Opens her mouth to shout and swallows water, legs flailing. But arms pull around her and her head crests the surface, and she's coughing and spluttering, and Pascal only looks vaguely abashed.

"P-Pascal! You know I can't swim!"

"Yeah. But you can stand, right?"

With a gut-wrenching embarrassment, Cheria's feet touch the pool floor. The water's little more than a metre deep.

"Oh," she says.

"Looks like you really do need these swimming lessons. Which is great news for you, cuz not only am I an amazing swimmer, I'm a great teacher too! Okay, so step one— don't drown…"

* * *

 

 _So much for getting so worn out I'll be out like a log,_ Cheria thinks.

It must be past midnight. Cheria's hands are folded over the coverlet as she counts tiles on the ceiling. After a few all-inclusive drinks at the pool bar, Pascal had been out like a light, and Sophie went to bed hours before.

She's been awake so long her thoughts begin to turn incoherently: a closed circuit. She thinks of the feeling of her mother's dress in her hand. The old man who'd patted her head like she was a dog. The boats passing on the quayside. "Good girl," he'd said. All her life she'd dreamed of being swept away in some wonderful romance, of a love like her mother and father's, and…

And yet, somehow, picking spinach out of Pascal's teeth had been the most sensual and frighteningly intimate thing to happen in her life. Had stirred her a hundred fold more than any of Asbel's lukewarm kisses, both terrifying and electrifying in its newness.

Cheria stares up at the ceiling. 302 _…303… maybe things will go back to normal after I've caught some sleep._

Yet under her chest, her heart continues to beat fast.

_304…305… 306…_


	4. i'll have what she's having

 " _The poor child. How is she?"_

" _She's coping with what happened better than we'd hoped, all things considering."_

" _She's such a good girl."_

_Ever since the accident, time had stilled. The voices of her grandfather and other adults leaked from the next room and flowed over Cheria without comprehension. Everything felt distant, as though she was sat underwater, watching the ripples of life through the clouded surface._

_Her parents were dead, yet the words were sea foam. They were water, slipping through her fingers. Her parents would never come back, yet she still woke in the morning expecting to hear the chinking of cups and saucers as her father brewed the tea. To hear the scrape of the butter knife on toast as her mother prepared breakfast; all the warm sounds of family domesticity._

_Yet now, when she woke, the house was silent. She would roll back to sleep, thinking the hour was still early. Dawn came, but the day never really began._

_Sat on her bed, Cheria's fingers clenched around fistful of flowery coverlet. Grandpa had told her he was proud of her for being so brave. Yet ever since he'd broken the news, her chest had felt tight. And now, it had gone from tight to painful. She took deep breaths, but somehow she couldn't breathe._

_She'd woken hours later, propped up in bed, the doctor's hand on her brow. After that day, there would be many more visits._

* * *

 

"C'mon, Cheria, you just need to relax!"

"I _am_ relaxed."

"You're totally not relaxed. Stop fighting the water. Just pretend you're a turtlez drifting back on his shell in a bi—ig glass of banana milkshake."

" _What_?"

"Geez, Cheria. Just try it."

Cheria sighs. Huffs. "Ridiculous," she mutters, but in the end she follows Pascal's bizarre instruction. Lying in the aquamarine pool on her back, Cheria hesitantly closes her eyes.

"Don't worry. I won't let go of you," Pascal tells her.

To be completely honest, it's not so much the water she's fighting against. Any images she has in her head about turtlez or banana milkshake evaporate as Pascal shifts her steadying grip on her, keeping her afloat. Cheria tries to focus on step one: don't drown, but Pascal's touch attracts all her senses with the power and grip of a magnet. She struggles not to squirm against the curve of Pascal's supportive palm on her thigh, the whisper of of support against the small of her back.

"You don't need to keep floppin' around like a fish, Cheria. I won't let you drown."

"It's not _that_ ," she says.

But then, what _is_ it?

Any further enquiry of thought along those lines breaks down when Pascal's palm shifts, inadvertently creeping up towards her inner thigh.

Cheria shrieks, and then everything is underwater and she's stomping up off up the shallow end, dripping all over the beach.

"You're giving up like that?" Pascal calls after her.

In reply, Cheria hurls off her water wings.

* * *

 

Cheria gets a head massage. A foot massage. Sophie even talks her into taking a mud bath with her— supposedly because it's good for her pores. She sweats it out in the sauna and has her nails done.

But inevitably, she drawn back into Pascal's axis.

She leaves Sophie shootin' the breeze with the two old ladies she's befriended in the sauna and steps out into the cool water, ankle-deep. Sweat has beaded on her brow, and she pushes her hair back.

Pascal cuts through the water.

Cheria's sat on a quayside half her life, but Pascal slices though the water with precision, purpose. The same woman who can't use a rolling pin, yet she's downright graceful in water. She walked miles to Lhant because she _felt_ like it, and as she watches her glide through the water Cheria is endlessly admiring and envious— because if only she could have that freedom. If she could go where she wanted, say what she wanted, if she wasn't held in an impenetrable lockjaw of politeness and damnable sensibility.

Perhaps what this feeling is, Cheria thinks. _Maybe I'm jealous of her._

"Hey, look, bro. That weirdo woman is still at it."

Cheria turns her head to see two men lent up by the bar. Bronzed blond surfer types, high on hedonism and here to pick up chicks. With a twitch of her eye, Cheria recognises one of them. It's the guy who harassed her the other day.

"What a freak. And what the hell is she wearing? I wouldn't go near that thing with a ten foot barge pole."

Cheria doesn't will her feet, yet they take her anyway, striding up through the sand to square up with the men. Before she's thought about if any of this is a good idea, she finds herself stabbing an accusing finger at the idiot's face.

"Yeah, well, _she_ doesn't want to go anywhere near _you_. And why should she care what you think of her?"

The two men stare down at her like she's a crazy person.

"Who the fuck are you?"

"I'm her friend. And I'm not about to sit by while you insult her. So what if she wants to swim a bazillion laps? Or if her swimsuit isn't sexy? Or if she wants to play on the hippopotamus kiddie slide? I love that she doesn't care what anyone thinks of her. Pascal is smart and unique and—"

Cheria cuts herself off, heart in her throat. — _And beautiful_ , she'd been about to say.

"Don't bother, bro. This is the psycho who chewed me out yesterday because I gave her a compliment," the guy says with a smirk.

"Oh shit bro, no way?"

He holds his hand aloft, raising his voice in a high-pitched squeak, "I'll have you know that I am _engaged_ , thank you very much!"

"Oh, bro. Shit is funny."

Cheria grits her teeth so hard they grind together. But she takes a deep breath. After all, she's a controlled and civil person. Everyone has their reasons, and maybe even these guys are just having a bad day—

"What I want to know is how miss prissy better-than-thou became friends with that ugly-ass chick. I mean—"

She's a controlled and civil person. And she's never considered herself privy to base emotions like senseless anger and violence.

But, all the same, Cheria still punches the smug, smirking moron in his smirking, moronic, stupid face.

* * *

 

The ceiling fan in the site office turns in long, swooping sighs. On the manager's desk is a novelty nodding dog, and Cheria keeps her eyes fixed on it rather than looking the manager— and her own mortification— in the eye.

She feels like a schoolgirl shuffling her thighs in the headmaster's office, awaiting her punishment.

The manager sighs a long, put-upon sigh. "Well, since you healed him afterwards, I'm willing to be lenient." Cheria nods vigorously, thankfully, and the manager continues: "Though, I'm still surprised you managed to break his nose. Has anyone ever told you that you're stronger than you look?"

"Something like that," Cheria mumbles. The nodding dog nods at her. It looks like the exact kind of weird doodad gizmo that Pascal would love.

…Did she really just think the words _doodad gizmo_?

"Miss Barnes, are you listening?"

"Um! Yes, I'm sorry." Re-doubled mortification spills up onto her cheeks. "You… were saying?"

"I said you're free to continue using the facilities, provided there are no more incidents from you and your friends. Understood?"

"Perfectly, Sir."

* * *

 

"Heya Cheria!"

Head downcast, Cheria jumps, startled, when Pascal catches her outside the office door.

"Pascal. Um."

"I saw you punch that guy!"

She feels as though she's ten years old again, being told off for climbing that stupid tree. Lord Aston had to climb up to rescue her, and Grandpa had scolded her for not thinking of her health and for bothering the lord with her foolishness.

She swallows. "It was… dumb of me, I know. Foolish and rash, and—"

"And _awesome!_ " Pascal interjects.

"And… what?" Her gaze bounces up from the floor. Pascal is barefoot, a towel slung around her shoulders, dripping all over the posh carpeted floor.

"Yeah! Like I heard the crunch from across the pool. And when he started crying like a baby. Classic."

Cheria stares. Pascal continues to drip all over the expensive floor. She'd thought that… "I thought you'd be angry with me. I could have got us kicked out. I mean, I punched him!"

"You sure did!"

"But…" she can't wrap her head around this.

"I mean, it's not like you go around hitting people for fun, Cheria. So I'm sure you had a good reason."

Cheria mumbles in reply.

"Eh? What's that?" Pascal asks.

Her face is burning. "I said… he insulted you."

"Oh," says Pascal. She's so uncharacteristically quiet that Cheria dares a glance up at her.

Pascal's no longer smiling her broad cat-like smile. Her lips are parted, and there is a hesitance in her voice as she asks, "You… did that for me?"

"Well, I—" Cheria shifts, foot to foot. Her stomach is a nervous tumbling of butterflies. "Yes, I did. I— I mean, you'd do the same for me, right?" She laughs nervously, her voice too loud: weak attempts to claw back normalcy from this new, alien place.

But Pascal tugs her towel around her shoulders. Instead of answering Cheria's evasion, says, in a small, shy voice, "I had no idea you felt that way about me."

Cheria's chest is hot, tight. She tries to keep her voice light and even, but a million questions are tumbling in her head. "What… what do you mean, Pascal?"

"Well." Pascal crosses her arms, hands clamped across her elbows."I guess… I guess I've been worrying that I'm annoying you. I'm not… great… with working out how other people are feeling. And, I guess… I've been worrying whether or not I should have come. I know I just kinda showed up and invited myself, but I really wanted to see you."

"You… you came to Lhant because you wanted to see… me?"

"Well, yeah. And Sophie too, of course. And Asbel. And your grandpa and I always have a swell time. But, yeah… mostly you."

Her eyes catch against Pascal's liquid amber, Cheria's heart in her throat, and—

"Why me?" she asks.

"Whataya mean?"

"I— I mean. You and Sophie always have so much fun together. I just… nag. And complain at you. I—" she cuts herself off. Finds herself mirroring Pascal: arms folded around herself, holding herself in place. "—Is is the pies? Because I make them for you?"

If she'd blinked, she would have missed the reproachful look in Pascal's eyes. "Cheria…" she says slowly, "I didn't come all the way to see you because you make good pies."

"Oh." She stares down at herself, hands still clamped around her elbows. "Then why?"

"Why?" Pascal raises her hands in exasperation. "Maybe cuz you're kind and and care about everybody and super cool. And because I—" she stops herself.

Cheria's never seen Pascal stop herself when she's in full flow.

"You… you really think I'm cool?" Cheria's cheeks are burning bright hot.

"Well… yeah, sure. I thought you knew." Pascal leans onto one foot, scratching at the back of her neck. She's collected a whole puddle under her feet.

"I… I didn't. I didn't know you felt any of that about me," Cheria admits. "I guess… I'm pretty bad at feelings, too."

She'd always bottled things up. Tried to pretend things were fine. Had been the good girl for so long she's not sure how to shake off the role. But, those bottled feelings were like carbonated water; one way or another, they came out. And she'd end up getting annoyed at stupid things: Pascal's swimsuit, or two people having fun. When the real reason she's annoyed, so frustrated that even now she can't relax, is—

Cheria swallows.

"For the record, Pascal, I don't think you're annoying." Pascal raises a dubious eyebrow at that, and Cheria amends, "Okay… sometimes. But all the same, I wouldn't want you any other way." She amends again: " _Okay_. Maybe you could take a bath or two more occasionally. Even just twice a week—"

She skids to a halt when she notices how Pascal is smiling at her. A gentle smile that leaves a hitch in her breath, the tangle of butterflies in her stomach fluttering away, leaving a feeling like buttery warmth.

Or: like standing out in the sun.

"Thanks, Cheria," Pascal says.

Despite herself, Cheria finds herself smiling back, too. A smile so wide it rises up with physical force: one she couldn't swallow down, even if she wanted to.

And when the whistle of the janitor rounds the corner and Pascal hooks her round the elbow, that warmth redoubles.

"Uh-oh, we better skedaddle," Pascal says, and Cheria's laughing, and they're away.

* * *

 

The laughter's still in her throat when the two of them collapse under the shade of a palm tree, Cheria still holding tight onto Pascal's arm.

A shadow falls over them and Cheria's head snaps up- but it's just a girl in a faux grass skirt, a tray full of drinks in her arms.

"Cocktails, ladies?" she asks.

"You got banana flavoured?" Pascal says.

"Sure."

"Then hit me." Pascal turns to Cheria to expand: "Not you, Cheria. I like my nose in the shape it is."

"P-Pascal!"

"Kidding."

The girl shifts, looking put-off by their antics.

Cheria is mildly surprised to find that she doesn't care.

"You want one of these, or not?" the girl asks.

Cheria hesitates, and then thinks: _What the hell._

"I'll have what she's having," she says.

The one sip of ale she'd tried, two years ago, hadn't endeared her to the taste of alcohol. Carefully, a child dipping its toes in the water for the first time, Cheria takes a drink. And she exclaims: "Oh! It's sweet."

A few, less hesitant sips later she decides: it's good. She especially likes that it comes with a straw and a cute paper umbrella. It's so much more inviting than a tankard of strong ale on a grim night in Fendel.

She and Pascal sit in the shade, watching the sun slink down toward the horizon. Although the evening begins to cool, something about the alcohol makes Cheria feel warmer; a pleasant warmth, fuzzy around the edges.

It eases the self-imposed shackles, the self-inflicted ruleset she's burdened herself with, and Cheria leans closer to Pascal. Where their arms touch, there's a kind of frisson, a magnetisation. A kind of awareness of her own body Cheria's never felt before. She laughs, splitting the cool evening night, for no reason at all.

"Y'know, Cheria, you're kind of an odd one," Pascal says.

"Excuse me? _Me_?"

"Yeah, you." Pascal knocks against her with her shoulder. "We go all the way to this swishy spa resort, but it takes punching a guy to get you to relax."

Across the beach, by the changing tent, the two men from earlier are eyeing them warily. The man she hit sports a particularly impressive bandage. Cheria meets his eye, and he flinches away.

"Okay, agreed," she says. "That is kind of odd. Maybe your oddness is rubbing off on me, Pascal."

"Yeah, I dunno Cheria. I think this one's on you. Your own flavour of odd."

"I have my own _flavour_? Hey, Pascal, what kind of flavour am I? Do you think it's watermelon? Because I'm hoping it's watermelon." And, as her straw rasps against the bottom of the glass: "Do you think they'll give me another one of these?"

The sun sinks, a slab of margarine sizzling on the horizon, throwing a nimbus of light across the water. Cheria spins the novelty umbrella between her fingers, talks, laughs.

Somehow, it's easy to talk.

"Pascal, how old were you when you left the enclave to travel?" Cheria asks. She's on drink number two and somehow, their arms touching has progressed to her laying her head on Pascal's shoulder. Somehow, it feels like a completely natural progression.

"I dunno. Maybe fifteen?" Pascal says. When she talks, Cheria can feel the words vibrating through her.

"That's so young! And your sister didn't mind?"

"Eh, well. Not exactly. She was pretty mad. So was the Overseer. Actually it less 'left' and more 'ran away.'"

Cheria lifts her head in shock. "I had no idea."

"Well you wouldn't, cuz Fourier and I kinda have this agreement not to talk to each other about it kinda pretend it never happened kind of dealio."

"Why did you run away?" Cheria asks.

"A lotta reasons. I never really fit in at the enclave, mostly."

"But you're so popular there," Cheria protests. Whenever she visited, Pascal was all the residents wanted to talk about. She was the pride of the Amarcia.

Softly, Pascal says, "That kinda always wasn't the case."

"Pascal?" Cheria cups her hand, eliciting a brief but genuine smile.

"It's different now, but people from the enclave didn't use to mix with folk from the outside. More than that: it was forbidden. My mum was from the enclave, but my dad…"

"Your dad was an outsider?"

"You got it. Which means Mum got kicked out. We travelled around for a while after that. I don't remember it, but Fourier does a little. She told me we used to have this little house in Zavhert, and a dog called Bert. Guess that's why I'm a dog person. 'Cept it didn't work out for my parents. Fourier says Mum tried to come back to the enclave, but the Overseer turned her away. So, she left us, and Fourier ended up raising me. I don't think sis ever really forgave our mother for that."

"That's terrible, Pascal," Cheria says, her heart aching. "I don't know how any mother could abandon their children like that…"

But Pascal shrugs. "I'm sure she had her reasons. I guess I kinda used to have this idea 'bout finding her after I ran away. And like, she'd be super happy to see me and apologise for leaving us, and she and I and Fourier could be a family again. Except…" Pascal falters, her voice small: "I travelled all over the world, and I never found anything about her."

"What's her name?" Cheria asks. "I can spread the word to the relief group. We can put up a request, and—"

Pascal cuts her off with the shake of her head. "S'okay." She stares up at the skyline. "To be honest, I dunno now what I'd say if I did find her. Dunno if there really is anything to say." She dredges up a smile, but Cheria sees how tight it is. "Thanks, anyway."

Cheria imagines it: little Pascal and Fourier in their house in Zavhert, with their pet dog. She imagines Pascal's mother, except her face is Cheria's own mother's. Even if she was snatched away from her, at least Cheria can remember her— how warm she was, how kind, how endlessly loving. How completely safe Cheria had felt in her arms.

But Pascal doesn't have any of that. Not even memories. And somehow, that makes it even worse.

"It's not fair—" Cheria says, a sob splitting her voice in two, tears filling her eyes. "You didn't deserve that. You deserve—"

"Ch-Cheria? Are you…"

She pulls Pascal into an embrace, holding her tight. "You deserved _better_ ," she chokes.

"Cheria… I think you might have drunk too much," Pascal says, softly.

"Probably!" says Cheria, half way between a laugh and a sob.

Yet Pascal's arms close around her anyway, and she feels the tickle of her breath as she lays her head on her shoulder.

"Thank you, Cheria," she says, and this time it's sincere.


	5. it sounded better in my head

 The sun sets. One by one, like pin-pricks, the stars come out. Azure deepens to darkness in this artificial oasis, a gaudy jewel studded in the middle of the desert. Cheria lays on the cooling sand, listening to the hum of the wave generator, the cascade of waves, the murmur of laughter from the bar down the beach.

She'd even managed to stop crying. Strange, how it felt as though she'd emptied herself out. Cheria feels utterly calm, like a still glass of water standing on a table somewhere, in some place.

"Pascal, can I say something weird?" she says.

"Shoot," says Pascal, from beside her.

"I think, maybe, I tried to become my mother," Cheria says.

"Okay. That wasn't the kind of weird I was expecting, but go on."

"Like maybe, I missed her so much I inadvertently started emulating her? Or at least, the person I thought she was. Maybe. Perhaps? Or does that sound like nonsense to you?"

"To be honest with you, Cheria, I've had two cocktails, a gin and tonic and that weird and purple fizzy thing. Anything sounds plausible to me right now."

"Because— I was thinking. My Mum and Dad really loved one another, and I always wanted that for myself. Except, maybe I just thought I wanted it? And maybe I really just wanted to get closer to her memory?" Cheria says.

"Feelings. What are they like, eh?"

"I know, right? So, here's what I was thinking— like, maybe it just sounded better in my head. Because here's the other thing."

"Yeah?" says Pascal.

"I don't think I want to marry Asbel at all."

The sand shifts beside her as Pascal sits up. "You don't want to marry him?"

A wave a vertigo hits Cheria as she tries to push herself up, the sand slipping beneath her fingers. Pascal takes her hand and helps her sit up. Maybe Pascal was right and she really is drunk.

"I don't think I want to marry anyone. Not now, anyway," she says.

"What do you want, Cheria?" Pascal asks. It takes her a moment to realise Pascal still has her hand, moving her thumb slowly on the soft skin in her palm.

"I want—" now she's noticed it, it's all she can think about, the sensation like ghostly kisses, sending a shiver trembling through her. "I want to go back to my relief group, and help people, and help bring our dream to life. And I want—"

Pascal's thumb is still sending stardust tingles through the patina of her skin, and there's sand stuck to the back of Cheria's hair. She can't look away from Pascal, feels as though she's getting sucked in to a new, terrifying, amazing place that only Pascal can take her. Pascal, who came all the way to Lhant for her, and even thought the night's not chilly, a powerful tremor runs through Cheria at the thought. She's drunk too much, a part of her is yelling, but Cheria is tired of caring. The truth is: she _is_ envious of Pascal and her free-spirited nature. And even if she and Pascal are chalk and cheese, to just have a _taste_ of that freedom…

"I want you," Cheria tells her, and the night catches like a rubber band. Her hands are in Pascal's hair, Pascal's arms around hers, her mouth on hers. Their kisses are sloppy and messy, noses knocking against one another, but it's everything and it's nothing at all like kissing Asbel.

When they break for air, Pascal tells her, "You don't know how long I've wanted to do this, Cheria."

Cheria asks, "Why didn't you say anything?"

"I dunno Cheria, because you were gonna marry Asbel, maybe?"

It stops her in her tracks. Voice low, she asks, "What am I going to tell him?"

Pascal cups either side of her face. Kisses her, so hot and hard that Cheria's left seeing stars, clinging at the strings of Pascal's swimsuit like a shipwrecked sailor to a spar.

"Screw it. Think about it in the morning. For once in your life, do something you want."

Cheria, readily, agrees.

* * *

 

Later, they wade out into the water.

The eleth lights and laughter from the bar are a distant memory on the shore, and the wave machine is silent. The water in the pool is as still and quiet as glass.

"Are you sure this is a good idea?" Cheria asks.

"One-hundred percent absolutely." She holds out her hand for Cheria. "You trust me, right?"

She takes it. "I do."

She leans back in the water, and when Pascal supports her, she doesn't flinch away.

"Pascal! Look! I'm floating!" she exclaims in excitement, and— "Oh!"

There's stars in the sky and stars in the sea, and Cheria is drifting between them.

The same feeling comes back to her— the feeling of being absolutely still. She closes her eyes against the brightness of the universe. "Hey, Pascal. I finally get it."

"Yeah?"

"I'm a turtlez, drifting on his shell in a big glass of banana milkshake!"

Pascal laughs, a big full-belly laugh. When she leans to kiss her, teeth skimming her bottom lip before pulling her in, deeper, her mouth tastes of milkshake and chlorine.

Never could Cheria have imagined that it would be _Pascal_ of all people to bring her such peace.

Above, and below, the night burns bright with the light of a billion stars.

THE END.


End file.
